


A Storm Was Coming In

by SarieVenea



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Post-Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 20:45:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarieVenea/pseuds/SarieVenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn’t happening. He wasn’t doing this again. The shoulder he dug his fingers into was cold and thin, frail, almost, but he jerked anyway and the thing wearing his brother tumbled onto the dusty floor with a small cry. Originally posted to ff.net in May, 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Storm Was Coming In

**A storm was coming in.**

By Sarie.

May, 2008.

* * *

Sam padded across the floor in thick socks, headed for the teakettle that he'd bought months before. The huge house creaked and groaned with the dipping pressure, boards from nearly a hundred years before groaning under the weight of one more Montana windstorm. He poured the hot water and hissed as stream brushed hot against his skin.

Years. Today marked the first day he could say  _years_   _have_   _passed_. Two years since a ratted postcard told him his brother was dead and he still felt empty, carved out, hollow, every time the name flickered behind his skull.

_Dean. I miss you._

He did. It was like a bad headache he couldn't quite shake. But hope had faded into resignation long ago and by this point, any waiting for news was deluding himself.

After his brother came back from hell, they quit. Quit hunting. Dean was scarred and twitchy, jumpy like a badly frightened cat, and nothing Sam did could calm him. The one hunt they finally went on, Dean snapped into a flashback so powerful it stopped him from seeing the monster that descended on his little brother. Sam woke up four days later in the hospital. Dean was paler than he, shaking in the hard-backed chair, and when Sam reached to push his too-long hair out of the way and the green eyes met his, silent tears began their slow trek down his face.

A week later, they were here, in this house Bobby found and bought, Dean working every day on the barn, the fence, the roof, the car. Sam healed and cleaned and learned to cook.

_Sam, I have to go. I have to leave. I can't…don't come with me._

The little town was lazy and quiet, nodding politely as Sam bought Dean's favorite beer and cereal, waiting and hoping. Months trickled by and the Impala got dusty under her sheet. Sam waxed her and took a drive in the spring sunshine, the black gleaming. Dean didn't come…he didn't come  _home_. But Sam stayed, taking online courses, his hands growing callused from odd jobs on neighboring ranches. He bought some cattle, but didn't have the heart to butcher them.

Dean would have laughed. But Sam had seen too much, done too much evil with those hands to harm anything.

The first Christmas was a drunken haze. He woke up the next morning covered in shattered glass, shards digging into his hands and cheek. The window blew cold and hard, snow drifting across the floor toward him.

He was cold, but he swept up the glass and boarded the window and made some tea and stopped waiting.

_I'm in Iraq. I don't know why we are fighting, but they bomb us every night. The hills are all lit up, as if the devil's gate were open just behind them. It's not hell, Sammy, but it's close._

Six months into this nightmare of loneliness, Sam has nearly given up, but there was a letter in his mailbox one morning and the rain nearly soaked the words away, before he could get inside.

He didn't know how.

How to write back.

* * *

It was summer again and the fields were rich and green. He learned how to cut hay, and how to round up cows to be bred. The neighbors came over when it was time to brand the not-so-little calves, and although the smell turned his gut viciously, the entwined letters,  _JDW_ , felt like a memorial when he planted the iron on the wooden sign above his driveway.

And then, an envelope came, a battered postcard and an official letter tucked inside.

_We regret to inform you…Dean Winchester was killed in action…_

_Dean was a good guy, decent, and he talked about this pain-in-the-ass kid brother all the time…_

When Bonnie next door noticed a broken fence and a loose herd, her husband was sent to check and found Sam unconscious on the floor of the kitchen. The letter was crushed in his fist and there was a line of empty bottles surrounded by vomit next to him. They cleaned him up, called Doc Jacobs from the clinic and Maggie from the diner and they put him to bed and dosed him and nursed him through the fever and sickness that followed.

* * *

That was two years ago. And Sam was used to being alone now. He had a dog, a floppy-eared lab with a white spot on his chest and sad eyes. Digo followed him around and barked at the mailman and the cows and ran behind him when Sam finally found a horse big enough to carry him over the fields. Djinn was big and roan and beautiful. Sam was proud of that find, a local livestock auction and the biggest horse in the arena just also happened to be the one that gazed at Sam just so.

The storm shuddered and let loose. Rain fell in sheets across the hills. It was powerful, and beautiful, and Sam stood at the window and watched. The cattle were in the near pasture, and the Impala was safely in her stall in the barn, next to Djinn. Digo's tail thwapped against the floor as Sam mentally ran down the checklist. Everything was latched and secured and covered and ready to weather a summer storm. He was safe for the night, ready to settle in front of the fire with a bottle of Jack, some hot tea, and a new book. Anything to ignore the screaming voice in the back of his head that reminded him of the date.

* * *

Sam eventually fell asleep, curled in the long couch under a stack of blankets. He woke to a wet nose poking at his chin.

"Hey, Digo." The storm was still slapping the screen door back and forth, and. hHe shifted and searched for the clock. Eight hours, and the wind wasn't letting up. He shivered. He was hungry. And not as hung over as he'd expected, but then he'd never had a taste for whiskey. It was Dean's drink.

He swallowed and rolled off the couch. He needed to go check on the barn. Slipping into tall boots, he tucked himself into a long waterproof coat and opened the door. Digo sniffed, but at Sam's raised eyebrow, he slunk out first. The rain was blowing sideways, no hint of the morning behind the pitch-black clouds.

Djinn was snorting and shifting restlessly, his skin twitching under the soft barn lights. Sam smoothed a hand over his side and ducked out to check on the herd. They were huddled together in the shadow of the barn, tails out, heads low. He slipped between the slats and fought his way through the mud to the nearest one. A big cow, her eyes baleful, lowed at him and he patted her gently, counting the broad backs. The two little ones were in the center of the mass, and all nine were accounted for. He gave the old one another pat and hurried back through the sliding door, Digo pushing at his knees. The barn was cool and his eyes lit upon the Impala under her dust cover.

And reached for the gun he kept oiled and ready on the rack next to the door. One edge of the pristine canvas tarp was rumpled and flipped up. Sleek black was visible, just in front of the driver's side door. He kept the rifle, an old Winchester in perfect condition, at hip level. Nothing stirred in the hay, and Digo was not growling, but every air on the back of Sam's neck raised at the utter stillness.

He clenched his jaw. "Get out of the car." Two heartbeats, and nothing. He bent swiftly and jerked at the cloth. It swept off the car in a billowing whoosh and he cocked the rifle with a echoing crack that thundered after the lightning outside, aiming at the dark figure in the front seat.

"Get out! You have about a second before I start shooting!"

The man didn't lift his head from the steering wheel. One hand was wrapped around the white leather, the knuckles visible…scarred, and bruised.

"I am not shitting around here, get out of my car!" Digo whined at the harsh tone. The man's grip released, his fingers uncurling one at a time, and raised his head slowly.

Sam felt the quiver begin in his gut and spread to his limbs, but the aim of the weapon never wavered.

"Who the fuck are you?" There was no answer, and he strode around the car, yanking open the door and slamming the rifle barrel into the man's chest. "Get out of the car!"

The face that turned up to him was thin and white, dripping hair dark over fine, bruised features. "Sam."

"You're not…"  _Snap._  His voice shattered.

"You're not him. Shut the hell up and get out of the car!" But the shake in his belly wasn't going away. The man… _thing_ …turned his body, his legs clumsily slipping out of the footwell. The hand that reached toward Sam trembled violently.

" _Christo._ " But no flinch, no black eyes. "Fuck,  _fuck, FUCK_. Get out of the car!" He roared. This wasn't happening. He wasn't doing this again. The shoulder he dug his fingers into was cold and thin, frail, almost, but he jerked anyway and the thing wearing his brother tumbled onto the dusty floor with a small cry. Curled into a shivering ball, the man didn't react when Sam nudged him in the ribs, when salt scattered over his jacket, when holy water added to the soaking clothing. Just lay there; dragging himself back to lean against the Impala while Sam gave up and simply stared.

"Talk. What the hell are you?" The rifle didn't move.

"Prison…" The sentence aborted. He cleared his throat, started again. "I was in prison."

Sam's gut turned. His brother's… _brother's_   _voice_.

It was rough, unused.

So quiet and still.

"Iraq. Northern, Iraq. For…for two years." And his face turned up, the soft light bulb hung from the rafters warm and yellow, brightening the hollows of his eyes. Sam's breath caught. Dulled and old, but bright, brilliant green met his gaze.

The relief that swept through his body weakened his grip and the rifle clattered to the ground. Dropping to his knees, he reached forward and pulled and Dean met his embrace with shaking hands, bending into his brother's chest and gripping, Sam's arms long and warm around him, the shirt he buried his face in sweet with smells of rain and hay and  _Sam_.

They were both trembling. Sam rested his cheek on Dean's wet head and rubbed gently down his back. He found he wasn't crying, though his brother was gulping huge sobs of air that shuddered against his ribs.

It was cold, and Dean was soaked. Sam wanted nothing less than to let go, so he reached behind him and snagged a rough horse blanket and wrapped it over Dean's back.

Digo crept closer, his nose prodding at Sam's shoulder before he lay next to them, his paws in Dean's lap.

"Shhh." He rocked carefully, hesitant to say anything. "Dean." The name nearly broke him, and he clenched his eyes shut against the burn of dry tears. "Dean, I've got you. You're home."

* * *

Somehow the rain gave way. Sam helped Dean stand and they stumbled across the muddy yard to the porch. Sam held the blanket over Dean's shoulders, held his brother against his side as he kicked off his boots, and then guided him through the hall and to the stairs. At the foot, they paused and Sam felt the shudder run across his brother's body.

"Dean?" Sam ducked to see his eyes. "Why don't you go up and take a shower?" Dean's head shook faintly.

" 'M clean."

"You're pretty cold, man. It'll help warm you up."

Dean acquiesced with a nod and Sam hovered as he took the stairs one at a time. They shuffled down the hall and Sam stepped ahead, flipping on the bathroom light and starting a hot shower. Dean pushed him away when he made to help with the stiff jacket, so Sam reluctantly lifted his hands and went in search of dry clothing.

He stepped into Dean's bedroom. Across the hall from his, the door had been shut for a full six months before Sam could force himself to go in and clean the hardwood floor, dust the shelves and dresser, open the window and air the room out. He crossed to the dresser and found a pair of soft sweatpants, a long-sleeved Henley. He folded them onto the toilet seat and scooped up the pile of wet clothes. Dropping it in the laundry room, he picked it up piece by piece. A soaked jacket, dark blue and heavy. Torn jeans, a thin brown t-shirt. All he had left? Why? Where…there was a thin wallet with three hundreds and a USMC ID. But nothing else. Sam stared at the ID card. This Dean was healthy and smirking at the camera. Not the fragile being they sent home to him.

* * *

A creak on the stairs had Sam looking up from the sink, from dishes that were a jolt of normalcy. Dean stood in bare feet under his sweats, his hair dripping down his collar. "Hey."

"Hey you." He stopped moving, one hand dwarfing a sponge.  _You should put socks on before you catch cold_. But he didn't say it. Soapy water ran off his elbow and he realized the puddle on the floor was growing. Hastily turning back to the sink, he dropped the sponge in the dishes and frantically sucked in the emotion that swelled over him. His heart seemed to pound in the empty space, and he turned back to see Dean still standing uncertainly in the doorway.

Stepping forward, Sam slipped into a space he'd occupied so many lifetimes ago with the ease of lifting the worn barrel of a long slim rifle and sent his broken brother a smile, pulling out the bench that lined the long table.

"You can sit." At a table too long for anything but neighbors and summer meals. Dean sat and watched as Sam drifted around the kitchen.

"I made some coffee." The cup sat in front of him suddenly, the aroma absolutely perfect. "Are you hungry? Are you feeling alright, um, warmed up and all?"

Dean took a long hot gulp of the coffee and closed his eyes at the sensation. Sam's hand dropped to his shoulder and the long fingers curled into his shirt briefly before Sam was back bending in front of the fridge again, asking about soup and Lucky Charms and grilled cheese.

Dean's forehead creased in concentration. Sam watched as his eyes wrinkled with a touch of humor, and at his question, barked a laugh that startled both.

"All of them?"

Soon they were seated side-by-side on the bench, facing bowls of hot tomato soup framing steaming, greasy grilled cheese sandwiches. The box of Lucky Charms sat in front of two more bowls and a sweating carton of milk.

Dean focused on the food. Hot and creamy, the soup bathed his stomach. The flavor of the cheese bit into his mouth and his stomach growled happily. Sam's hand brushed against his brother's arm, his wrist, his hand. Dean watched him do it, almost curious, and yet fighting the urge to pull away.

Sam opened his mouth. And closed it. How…how the hell do you start a conversation that begins with  _POW for two years_?

"Not…tonight. Sammy?" Dean's gaunt face was questioning. "Not tonight." As if he'd read Sam's mind.

"Okay. Okay, Dean."

They ate in silence, first the soup and sandwiches, Lucky Charms for dessert. Dean started to droop into his cereal. Sam carefully tucked one hand up under his arm and lifted. Dean jerked but relaxed into Sam's hold and let his brother guide him toward the stairs.

Dean was shaky with exhaustion by the time they got to his bedroom. He pushed at Sam's hands when Sam tried to help him under the blankets, fighting with the sheet for a minute before twisting his back to his brother and settling.

Sam ran his hands through his hair. This wasn't happening, his mind screamed as his carefully constructed walls began to shake apart and crumble.

His brother was.

dead.

Years, remember? But he turned away, going downstairs, running through his nightly routine of locking doors, checking animals, turning off lights and faucets and setting the coffee maker, all on autopilot. His mind was jerking and churning, clawing at one thought.

_Dean._

* * *

"Doc?"

"This better be-"

"Dean's home."

Seconds passed and he nearly repeated himself before-

"Sam? You drunk again?"

"He was in an Iraqi prison for two years, Doc, he's pretty… frail. Can you-"

"Now? Or in the morning?"

"No, he's asleep for now."

"How did he seem? Shocky, hurt at all?"

Sam swallowed. He hadn't even looked. "I don't know." His voice cracked.

"Sam, son, they told you he was dead."

"I know!" Sam bit out. He took a deep breath. "I know." Gentler. "But, there was no, no body to bring back. They said-"  _The helicopter had crashed, nothing left but bits of bone and ash. Nothing to put in the casket that Sam refused to put in the plot next to his mother's. There was a gravestone, but no grave._

_At least he wouldn't have to burn his brother._

* * *

Sam found himself back in Dean's room. The tall, straight-backed chair was draped with a dark flannel quilt that he wrapped himself in, tilting his head against the back of the chair, watching his brother sleep.

Dean was twitchy, his fingers curled and clenching at the sheets. His face wasn't still, and when Digo click-clacked into the room, his nails nearly silent on the hardwood floors, the tiny sounds jerked Dean awake, his eyes flying open and every limb yanking in towards his body.

Sam didn't move towards him, but one hand stilled Digo's movement. Dean was tense enough to snap under the pile of blankets, but motionless, his eyes dark in the shadows from the night light down the hallway.

"Dean?"

"Are you Sam?" The question was clear and loud and quick. Sam dropped his hand from Digo's head, startled.

"Yeah. Dean, I'm Sam."

"They…they told me you had d-died anyway."

_How would Iraqi guards know…_

_hell. Hell. They told him_

… _in hell._

"I didn't. I'm here, still, Dean."

Dean's lips moved.

"Dean, it's okay. Go back to sleep."

"S-sure." He was shivering again, a façade of his smart-ass comment slipping from between his teeth. Sam eased to the floor next to the bed, one hand sliding across the blankets to brush against Dean's cheek. Dean flinched, but his skin was cold and clammy to the touch. Sam waited out the tension, until Dean uncoiled a bit, then pressed his hand to the back of Dean's neck.

"Dean," he whispered. "I'm here. Go to sleep."

Dean's eyes fluttered and slipped closed. His chest evened out and his face smoothed and Sam stayed on the floor, his fingers warm on Dean's skin and his head heavy on the side of the bed until the grey lightened and the storm.

slowly.

broke.


End file.
